


I Could Be Enough

by marelicarter (padmefuckingamidala)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I dunno it starts out gourmet an ends like a microwave pot pie so I'm so sorry, I wrote this a while ago and just decided to finish it, Mild Hurt/Comfort, just jot that down, this is nothing compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padmefuckingamidala/pseuds/marelicarter
Summary: You love Bucky Barnes, and love makes you do stupid things. In the midst of battle, you sacrifice a bit of yourself to save Bucky, but you’re not sure if you’re even worth it.





	I Could Be Enough

You don’t know what comes over you in that moment, but you throw yourself in front of Bucky just as they reach for his arm, shielding him with your body as if you’re enough. Huge hands wrap around your left arm and a sword comes through, swinging through the air, and the only thing you can register is Bucky’s scream. Piercing, and somehow not different from the screams you heard him give during a nightmare. Maybe he was frightened of what had nearly happened to him.

Pain takes over your body as you crumple to the concrete floor and try your hardest to hold back screams of your own. You feel too little yet too much, every sensation too much to bare. This was what it meant to be an Avenger; sacrifice, bloodshed, pain. There was no escaping the downsides of something you wanted so badly. Here you are now, here by some fucked up chance, and you’re not doing too well. Tony knew you weren’t ready. He’s protective over you—his daughter from a past hookup, left alone with a poor, sick mother that didn’t do much to provide for you. Tony took you in of course, but he assured you he didn’t expect to be called “dad” since he didn’t exactly deserve it. Fine, dandy, and though he was more of an uncle in terms of relations it seemed, you like the idea of someone having your back and always having an adult to run to—several adults at this point. Tony would beat himself up if he finds you face down on the floor, cheek squished against the cold ground, missing an entire fucking arm. You weren’t ready, no matter how much training you’d done with Sharon.

Bucky’s face is twisted in pain, glued to you, eyes wider than the moon. You don’t see that look much, but then again, you don’t see much of Bucky in general. Maybe it’s better that way. One look into those blue eyes and your heart is beating frantically in your chest. He’s safe. He’s whole, he’s fine, with only one scratch on his face. You would do it again if it meant seeing him safe. Heart fluttering, you try to push yourself up, trying to use what’s left of you to shield him. 

Holy fucking shit, you love him. Probably. It’s a pretty intense crush. He steps over you in turn to protect you, leaving you breathing hard against the cement. Moving in with your biological father gave you so much in life. You didn’t have to work eighty hours a week anymore. Tony provided for you, and in turn, you just did chores and made the base seem happier and homier. Easy. Bucky, though, makes it so fucking hard sometimes. Your brain goes to mush at the sight of him. His voice, soft and raspy, eyes squinting when he smiles, he was so kind and so lovely towards you. He kept his distance when he could, afraid the metal arm would scare you off, but you grew to love all of him, like a person would a small kitten.

You’re stupid. It’s not typically how you would describe yourself, but in this moment, it’s all you can think of. Admiration clouded your mind. Bucky captivated your thoughts and something in you was desperate to cling to him, yearning to hold him and maybe love him. Bucky, however, was someone that kept to himself and you didn’t have the guts to voice your admiration. You did, however, have the guts to jump in front of him and get your arm ripped off right in front of him.

It isn’t long before he turns to you, falling at your side and trying to wrap your arm up. “I need help,” he yells into the com. “Y/N’s hurt, she’s losing too much blood fast.” Your eyes meet his again only to cause a harsh fluttering in your chest. His hands move quickly to stop you from losing blood, but his words turn to mush...

You black out, then wake up in the jet. Bucky’s leaning over you and trying to put as much pressure on your wound as possible. No words can form from your mouth but you hear frantic conversation. “I’m so sorry,” Bucky’s raspy voice rings through your ears. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.” You want to reassure him, but it feels like a weight is holding you down. Something wet hits your cheek—he’s crying. Nothing works right; your tongue is too heavy in your mouth to form proper words. Black out again.

The next time you resurface, you’re in your own room. Maybe it was all a dream, and embarrassing dream that has you rolling your eyes until finally, you try to push yourself up only to fall back against the bed. It’s gone—your arm is actually gone. Bucky’s quiet words replay in your mind as your stare at the wrapped stump. There’s nothing left. Your elbow is gone, nearly up to your shoulder, and the memories begin to hit like tidal waves. 

It hurts. You’re not used to it yet and the pain keeps building up in a way that makes you choke on a frustrated sigh and close your eyes tight. If you can’t see anything then the lack of an arm won’t affect you. But it’s not that easy. A fire smothers your entire body and no matter how much you try to breathe through it and push away all the fears, you’re left sputtering and gasping for air. The fire is worse around your would, as if the bandages are made of actual flames. It’s too much.

“You’re having a panic attack,” FRIDAY speaks suddenly, “would you like me to page Captain Rogers?”

Steve has been the rock in your life, the more fatherly of the bunch. Well, maybe. Whenever you saw Clint you just did whatever the hell you wanted because his fatherly instincts kicked in without much warning. It wouldn’t have been the first time he yelled at you either. But Steve… Steve knew what you went through. Poor, sick, hungry, not knowing whether or not you’d wake up with more or less problems in the morning. The anxiety is another relation. Tony has yet to acknowledge his and work through it, leaving him in the dark for most of the much needed help.

“My arm hurts,” you cry out. “FRIDAY, it’s too much. I-i-it hurts.”

“It’s still healing,” she informs. “I’ll page Captain Rogers.”

You cry but it’s not enough. Though tears leave your body, the pain does not, and you’re stuck in an odd limbo. Steve makes his way through the door with Tony and Nat in tow. Worry is not a good look for them—Tony is a few paces slower to allow the others to help you first. In that sense, he’s not a bad dad. Steve sits by your side and holds your only hand left through the entire episode, whispering small encouragements, while Nat has wiggled her way to sit behind you and hold you close, playing with your hair to distract you like she knew you liked. When life got too rough, Nat and Wanda would hold you and play with your hair. It reminded you that you were the baby of the Avengers, but it was too nice of a feeling to forfeit. Nat was truly another mother figure, which was nice. She knew how to read you better than most people, and she knew what you needed. And now, all you need is someone to keep you grounded.

“You’re okay,” Steve coos when you finally calm down. “Do you need us to get you something?”

All you can do is shake your head. What is there to get? Tony opens his hand to reveal a packet of aspirin and hands you the cup of water on your night stand. “Thank you,” you mumble before downing it all. Nat has no intentions of moving, which you’re kind of thankful for. Your body melts into the touch as you lean back against her and her hand finds her way back up to your hair. You could almost close your eyes and relax if you weren’t so embarrassed or anxious.

“I’m going to ask a dumb question,” Tony says, glancing up at the other two. “We already know the answer. We just need confirmation.”

“Okay.”

Tony pauses. It’s obviously awkward. “Did Barnes have anything to do with this injury? Inflicting it, I mean.”

“No.”

Tony holds out his hands, a gesture confirming the answer was the same. “See? She even said it herself. No. Why is he in a mood?”

“What’s wrong with Bucky?” you ask.

Steve’s eyes flicker to Nat’s before answering you, as if that would have soothed all his fears. “He blames himself for you losing an arm. He thinks he wasn’t strong enough and they got to you.”

Your face heats up again, but not as bad as it had during your panic attack. Bucky blames himself. “What? No! What did you guys tell him, won’t he listen to you guys?”

“Well,” Nat begins, an audible eye roll heard in her voice, “I didn’t think you wanted us to mention your crush and say that had something to do with it, but no.”

Steve’s eyes are wide, wheels turning, lips parted like he has something to say but isn’t sure how or why he wants to say it. It takes a moment for him. “You… like him?”

“It’s obvious,” Tony chimes in. You hadn’t noticed that he was measuring your arm and your, well, stump. His touch is light and gentle, odd for someone like him, but then again it could be the very slight paternal instincts kicking in. You suppose the other two are doing a great job at distracting you. The pain isn’t as bothersome as before. He takes the pencil from between his lips to make note of the measurement he just took. “Have you ever wondered why Bucky always gets to finish the orange juice even though she’s the first one up?”

“Stop,” you whine.

Nat’s hand stills in your hair as she laughs. “Or how Bucky’s favorite bagels just mysteriously show up on the counter? She makes a weekly trip just for him.”

Steve doesn’t care about the juice or the bagels. It’s not important. What he focuses on is the kindness you tend to give towards crushes without any indication, and a sad realization hits him. “Did… Y/N, did you…” Phrasing it is hard. There’s so much to unpack. “Did you sacrifice your arm to keep Bucky safe?”

It’s quiet suddenly, and the dull sting of your arm is felt. Nat’s hand moves once more through your hair before falling to rest on your shoulder. Fuck. It was out there in the open now, and with the way you’re hesitating, it’s too late to lie. Nothing comes smoothly from this. “I couldn’t let them take his other one,” you mumble, almost ashamed of your decision. “He’s been through so much already. I think a few decades of pain is more than enough, don’t you think?”

“You did it for him anyways,” Nat realizes. “You need to tell him.”

You shake your head softly. Refusing to meet their eyes, you focus on your one, sole hand. All alone. Its dry and a little sore from combat, but it’s nothing absolutely horrible. At least it’s there. “I don’t want him to see me all… hurt. I’m not fixed yet.”

“You’re not broken in the first place,” Tony says. He isn’t sure how he feels about the whole situation, and with your sacrifice, but it’s not to be ignored. “You need to tell him or I’ll have FRIDAY play love songs whenever you’re in a room together.”

“He’s a man with a metal arm,” Steve reminds. “I don’t think he’s going to care what you look like.”

But for the next two days, you don’t see much of Bucky. Routines continue despite his absence; the last bit of orange juice is left for him (maybe because you’re too afraid to pour it) and you try to better yourself. Getting dressed is hard. Nat finds you crying, frustrated, because you can’t clasp your fucking bra by yourself and all of your shirts look weird with only one arm. She helps you, all the while drying your tears, and pulls out a t-shirt from your closet. “Just wear this,” she says, pulling it over your head. “Tony should have a prototype ready in a few days, or else I’d help you patch up the spare holes.”

“I feel like a child,” you groan, sniffling. The tears won’t dry up and you’re pissed. Absolutely helpless. You were supposed to be a new avenger, but you couldn’t even dress yourself. Your own thoughts were turning against you at this point, making you sniffle again and blink a few times.

“Don’t.” She brushes your hair and pins it out of your face. “You saved Bucky and you’re incredibly brave. We have no problem helping you out.” Moments of silence pass as she helps you get ready for the day. It’s not as embarrassing as it should have been, you suppose. Maybe the loss of a limb desensitized you. You let her help you, using her to balance yourself while applying lotion and watching her show you how to do things with one hand. She breaks the silence after a minute or two: “Bucky hasn’t finished the orange juice. It’s still in the fridge.”

“That bastard better finish it.”

Nat laughs. “Okay, okay. Maybe he wants you to drink it.”

“Or maybe he wants it delivered,” you mutter.

You end up in the kitchen to pour the juice but you also think of the what if’s. What if Bucky didn’t want to talk to you? He was starting to get his life together, why would he want a girl that wasn’t whole? That’s insane. You two weren’t even a thing. Thoughts cloud your mind, good and bad, to the point that glass slips through your fingers. You stare at the cup that’s now in pieces at your feet. Who would want someone like you?

“It’s okay,” a low voice urges, gently pushing you away from the shards. “Hey, you’re okay. Don’t cry.”

You’re crying? Oh. You are. As you look up and meet Bucky’s face you wipe your cheeks and wonder how you don’t send him further away. He sweeps the glass up effortlessly without meeting your gaze.

“I was just coming to get some juice,” he says, breaking the silence that sets in. “Wanna share it?”

“It’s yours,” you croak, voice breaking. 

He nods, sweeping the shards into a dustpan and crouching down to pick it up. It’s too much, to see him there so beautiful and safe thanks to you. The shoulder without an arm stings but he’s talking. The words won’t register. He looks up, eyes worried, again, for you—oh. “Y/N?” he whispers.

“It’s yours!” you repeat as you choke on a sob, running away from the beautiful, whole being before you.

He drinks the juice, and you don’t see him until the day Nat drags you to the lab. You’re in your sweatpants and a sports bra, almost feeling exposed to the room of scientists before you. Tony’s nervously tapping against his screens and waiting for you to say something reassuring you were fine.

“Is it wrong that I’m scared?” you ask Nat quietly, sitting back against the cool, padded table.

Nat shakes her head and brushes wisps of hair from your face. “No. You have every right to be. But we’re gonna be here with you. Steve, too.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

Nat doesn’t speak for a moment. “Tony said we had to be quick about it,” she murmurs. They have to hook up every nerve to this arm, and if they wait too long, they’re afraid your body might not adjust to it well.”

Nothing at this point can soothe your nerves. You drop that subject and try to calm your breathing but the whirl of tools overhead distract you and make you tense. “Bucky finished the orange juice,” you say quietly, aware of the figures around you. “I made a fool of myself like usual.”

“He’s worried about you.”

You meet Nat’s eyes and swallow any tears that might be stinging your eyes. “I just wish I could be enough, Nat,” you say in a whisper, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I…. I’m so fucking scared I ruined everything. If getting this arm could help my chances…”

“You’re not broken.”

“I’m not whole, either.”

Nat watches as the doctors inject something into your vein, and then place a little mask over your mouth and nose. “No matter what, you’re you,” she says. “All of us love you no matter what.”

You look all around you. Nat smiles slightly at you, Tony watches you from his screens, Bruce stands beside him with the arm, Steve stands aside for moral support, and Bucky looks just as scared as you are, standing by the door, nervously, his eyes locked with yours until your eyes finally close.

When you wake up again, you’re in so much pain you nearly look past the figure in the corner. You’re still strapped into a bed, but that’s not the issue--the pain in your shoulder is too much to handle and you can’t stop the startled yelp that leaves your mouth. The figure in the corner stands abruptly--you jerk and find yourself clawing at the pain in your shoulder, but your fingernails come in contact with a hard metal, and you let out another cry.

It’s Bucky. He stands before you and presses a button. A call button? Something? He slams it once and the feeling almost immediately goes away. You float as you watch him, his face tired and scraggly, wondering how on earth he could look so helpless and beautiful at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“I’m whole,” you nearly sob. “I’m not broken anymore, and I hope it’s enough for you.”

“What?” His eyebrows draw together in confusion, flesh hand grasping yours to keep it busy and away from your new metal arm, which doesn’t feel as heavy as you thought. “Y/N, hey, it’s okay.”

“I’m not broken anymore,” you repeat though shuddered breaths.

“You’re loopy from the pain medication. Look at me--it’s okay.”

“I hope it’s enough,” you sniffle before the drowsiness hits you once more. Bucky talks, but you don’t hear him. How could you? Your heart beats in your ears, too loud and too fast, until you finally see black. Oh. Your eyelids. Bucky’s voice fades and you feel at peace in your dreamless sleep.

Waking up again is a bit of a chore. Light seeps through your eyelashes and causes you to wince. Blinking rapidly, figures blur together. Voices slur into one. Finally, after you feel someone touch your left arm, you groan and look over. It’s metal. The arm you have is metal--you can feel them touching you. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you beg groggily, voice raspy with sleep. “It hurts. It hurts so much, please.”

Tony’s face appears beside you, a sad smile playing on his lips as his fingers trail up your arm. “Hey,” he murmurs, “I know it hurts. But we need to make sure it’s working.”

A whine leaves your lips before you can stop it. “Please,” you beg again. “I feel everything, just don’t touch me anymore. I promise you, I can feel it.”

Tony wants to argue until Bucky steps into view with bloodshot eyes. As Tony’s pulls away, Bucky’s hand softly grabs yours--you wince as his palm slowly connects with yours but in the end it’s not a bad feeling. The pain fades away and the contact is nice. You actually feel his touch on your new metal arm.

“Flex your fingers,” Tony says, picking up his notepad.

You oblige.

“Can you still feel Barnes’ hand?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, fighting the tears that had started to swell. “It doesn’t hurt as much.” Nothing else is said for a while. Tony watches you, happy, as your breathing finally settles and you aren’t in too much pain. You realize now that everyone else left your room, and you’re alone with the man you love so much, and the man who is trying to be a decent father.

“Okay,” Tony starts, “I need you--”

“Dad,” you croak, cutting him off. “Please. Just let me sit for a minute.”

Dad. Tony stops everything he’s doing and pulls back. You called him dad. He clears his throat and straightens up, nodding with some excuse of needing to check on something, before walking out and leaving you alone with Bucky.

He pulls away from you slowly, his flesh fingers trailing softly on your metal ones without a sound. It doesn’t hurt as much as you expected, physically, at least. His face is unreadable, even now as he keeps his eyes on you. Maybe you weren’t whole enough yet. He didn’t even want to hold your hand, how could you be whole? Broken, you were--just a broken woman without a proper arm. “Feeling better?” he asks and breaks you from your thoughts.

You nod, but nothing else is said. The pain will fade soon enough. All you care about is being whole for Bucky Barnes.

Weeks pass. Pain fades and leaves you feeling more energetic and willing to go through with Tony’s tests. He instructs, and you comply, and once everyone clears you, you’re over the moon. You can do anything and everything, including going back to your old routine. Wearing a jacket and glove (out of fear of the public) you fetch more bagels for Bucky and more orange juice, since you know you’re probably out. There was a little left yesterday but you continue to save the last bit for Bucky.

He catches on, though, and sneaks up on you in the kitchen. Bodies barely brush against each other as he moves past you to the fridge. The hairs on your arm and the back of your neck stand up as anxiety floods your body. Upon realizing it’s Bucky, though, you feel much more calm and settle against the counter while taking off your outer layers.

“Wanna share some juice?” he asks.

You shake your head. All he came down here for was juice? The disappointment gets bitten back, the bagels get shoved in the bagel box. “No, thanks. That’s yours anyways.”

“I know. You always save me the last cup.” 

And there it is. You freeze with your back towards him and wonder what could come of this. Are you whole enough? His body language around you is calmer and more accepting, not sad, not sleep-deprived, not self-loathing. This should be a good sign. Memories of the past few weeks replay in your mind for you to assess your being--were you now, all of a sudden, whole enough?

“We can share though, can’t we?”

You don’t answer his question, but instead turn to see him. “You don’t blame yourself anymore, do you?” you blurt out worriedly. “Steve and Nat told me—“

“I do.”

“—that—wait, why?” Something short of confusion twisted across your face. “I did this. You didn’t hurt me in any way.”

“But I should have seen it coming.” Bucky pours the juice into two cups, sliding one across the counter to you and keeping the other—it remained curled in his metal fingers as his flesh ones tapped against the counter, an anxious tick you’ve noticed, which makes you feel just as panicked as he is. “You like me,” he states softly. “You leave me juice and wash my favorite sweatshirt on bad days. I should have known you’d try to sacrifice yourself on a mission if you were paired with me.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” you nearly beg. Everything’s out on the table. Bucky knows you like him. What else could ruin your day? Tears prickle your waterline and threaten to escape as you stare at the beautiful man before you.

“The only time you ever hurt me was when you flatlined.” Bucky downs his juice and places his cup in the sink before turning back towards you. “I watched you die. Twice. You flatlined on the jet and luckily we were able to get you back, but we had such a hard time stopping the bleeding. And then, right as I put you on that table and Cho began to monitor you, you flatlined again.”

“Bucky…”

“But I didn’t get to ever return your favors,” he says sadly. “I didn’t get to let you finish the juice, I never grabbed you those muffins you like so much, and I never got to tell you how beautiful you look in the morning with your hair up and you wearing the sweatshirt I just happened to leave around. If you were gone, and I never got to tell you that I loved you, I don’t think I ever would have forgiven myself.”

You want to kiss him. He’s sad, something you understand but don’t at the same time, because this isn’t his fault. You love him, too. Almost shyly, you take his hand in yours like he did after the arm was attached, forgetting all about your orange juice he shared with you. “What about now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could you still say ‘I love you’ to a girl that isn’t whole?”

Bucky kisses your metal hand, keeping it prisoner in the grasp of both of his. You can feel the soft pads of his lips against it, warm and gentle, until he pulls away to hold you close to him. The gap between you two closes in an instant. All of your insecurities and now your new found ones as well bubbled over. But he presses another small kiss to your forehead and smiles into your hair. “Maybe I’m not whole, either,” he says softly. “Maybe you complete me.”


End file.
